More Than The Sun
by Gandalf3213
Summary: Grantaire discovers that Enjolras ruined his painting and assumes that their relationship is over. Enjolras only confirms it when he tells Grantaire he doesn't want to see him. It is only when Grantaire stumbles home after an attack that Enjolras sees how badly he's neglected his boyfriend.


_"Enjolras. Grantaire admired, loved, and venerated Enjolras...No one loves the light like the blind man. The dwarf adores the drum-major. The toad always has his eyes fixed on heaven. Why? In order to watch the bird in its flight. Grantaire, in whom writhed doubt, loved to watch faith soar in Enjolras. He had need of Enjolras." **Victor Hugo**_

.***.

One of the things Grantaire loved most about Enjolras was how dedicated he was to his work. Grantaire was shiftless, lazy, a slowly reforming drunk, and Enjolras was out every day fighting for everyone who had been downtrodden. Somehow, he had been taken by Grantaire, and Grantaire had spent the ten months they were together holding his breath, sure that this wonderful dream would stop, he'd open his eyes one morning and his Enjolras, his master, his beautiful Apollo, would be gone. He'd thought about it so much, one would think that he would be prepared when it happened.

He was not.

Stretching in the morning—okay, it was nearly noon, but Grantaire had been up late painting—the first thing he noticed was that Enjolras wasn't there, his warm weight wasn't stopping Grantaire's hand mid-stretch. Contrary to popular belief, Enjolras was perfectly capable of staying in bed all day. He'd wake early, make tea and toast, go for a run, and then climb back into bed, one hand tangling in Grantaire's hair until the darker man woke up. Some mornings, these first few moments of consciousness when they were both warm from sleep, lips lazy against each other, were the best part of the day.

Except today Enjolras wasn't there.

Grantaire blinked, propping himself up on his elbows and looking around the room, which was a whirlwind. Enjolras was a barely contained tempest, and Grantaire had given up trying to clean up after the storm. "Enjolras?" Grantaire called, even though he suspected the apartment was empty—it had that stale, still feel. There was no answer.

Grantaire knew that there was no meeting called for today, just a rally to attend in the evening. He got up, poking his head into the kitchen for a note, for a sign of where Enjolras could have gone without notice. Already a flash of anxiety was settling into his stomach like a warm stone. When Enjolras wasn't leaning against the counter in the kitchen, composing a speech or shouting at the paper, Grantaire decided that the only way to take his mind off the creeping fear was to go back to his painting.

Time slipped away when he painted, especially now that Grantaire was gaining confidence, was sure that this particular huge mural was actually good. It was a portrait of them, of course, the Amis as Grantaire saw them. They were at a rally, standing on a stage and extoling a crowd, but each of the painted Amis was imbued with the personality of the real people they represented. Courfeyrac and Combeferre were bending down to patch up an abused orphan child. Jehan and Feuilly were waving flags. Marius was holding a copy of the Constitution and looking both timid and determined. The others were scattered in the picture, yelling and helping, and in the middle of it all was Enjolras, his face a wild picture of resilience, his hair the brightest point of the whole picture, the focal point, shining like the sun.

For weeks, Grantaire was sure he would not include himself. He was just Enjolras's boyfriend, after all, good for nothing, terrible for the cause, a bad speaker and a worse moral influence. But then last night, in a fit of romanticism, he'd painted an ugly, dark-haired creature in the back, one hand on Enjolras's shoulder, and the expression on the painted Grantaire's face as he looked at his beloved made him beautiful. That figure was the reason he'd gone to bed late, barely remembering to throw the sheet back over the picture.

The sheet was necessary. When Grantaire first started the picture, he'd stood in front of Enjolras and fidgeted before kneeling, feeling so much more secure presenting himself like that before his master, especially when he was about to ask for something that he absolutely did not deserve.

Enjolras had been reading, they'd been talking normally, as equals, and so when Grantaire suddenly sank into a submissive position the book was gone in an instant and Enjolras's hand was on his shoulder. "What is it, my good boy? Is there something you need?"

Grantaire trembled. There had been other men before Enjolras who would punish him harshly for what he was about to say, and though Enjolras had sworn he wasn't those men, though he had proved it, it was still difficult to let go of the old rules. "Please, sir, I wanted—I'm going to paint a picture—if that's okay, if you don't mind, I know I'm not very good, and that supplies cost money, but I've been making a little teaching dance, and I was hoping—"

"Of course you can paint, sweetheart," Enjolras's hand was in his hair now, stroking, "Are you so afraid to ask that of me? You know you may do what you wish with your own money. I will never try to take that independence from you."

He wouldn't even accept money for rent, though Grantaire would slip what he could in, putting the excess money in Enjolras's pockets before he could notice. "It's not that, sir," Grantaire said, "It's—it would be a very personal picture, and it won't be very good, and I'd want to paint here because I would like be around you, but I don't want—it would be better if you wouldn't—I know I should ask, sir, but…" he couldn't say the words.

"You want privacy?" Enjolras said, eyebrows raising, "I understand. I don't show my speeches to anyone before I am sure of them. It would be unfair for me to pry into your painting before you were ready to show me. I promise not to look, okay? And we'll find a way to cover your progress as we go. But R?" He tilted Grantaire's head so they were looking at each other, "I don't want to hear you putting down your talents again. Your painting may not be perfect—though from what I've seen of your sketches I don't doubt it will be beautiful—but it is yours, a part of you, and that makes it precious to me. I will not look if you don't want me to, but I will be proud of anything you create."

That had led to a night of very good sex.

Gathering his brushes, Grantaire went over to the corner of his painting and pulled off the sheet. Underneath his painting was destroyed. A huge hole in the center took out the side of Enjolras's face and obliterated the newly added Grantaire from the picture.

Grantaire froze, brushes sliding from his hands, clattering to the floor. His brain refused to process what he was seeing. What could have happened? The only person who could have seen the painting, could have wrecked it, was Enjolras—Grantaire had trained himself long ago to wake up the sound of strange people in his sleeping space. But why would Enjolras do this? What had happened? Nothing had changed, nothing, except that last night he'd decided to sketch himself into the scene.

A month before, Grantaire had been coming home from a dance lesson, new money jingling his pocket and fresh flowers in hand, when he heard Enjolras's voice through the door and his hand stilled as he was about to twist the knob. He didn't mean to eavesdrop, it's just that sometimes Enjolras's voice literally stopped him in his tracks.

"I don't know, 'Ferre," Enjolras's melodic voice came muffled through the door. "His devotion astounds me. Scares me. Grantaire would lay down in traffic if I asked him to. He would die for me even if I begged him not to. He takes all matter of abuse—and at my hand! How much does he endure for my sake?" Grantaire walked in then, and Enjolras did a good job of looking up and smiling as if nothing had been said at all.

Since then, Grantaire and struggled. Enjolras was scared by his devotion, and the only thing Grantaire could think of to keep Enjolras with him was to submit more, to be less vocal, to take was Enjolras gave him even if it was too much sometimes, even if Enjolras went too far. He had to accept it all while he could.

Grantaire could picture it all—Enjolras waking up first, as usual, and looking over at him, Grantaire, lazy and sleeping. Getting up to make coffee, to get the day in order, and maybe the sheet had fallen off, or Grantaire had never put it on at all, he'd been so tired, and Enjolras saw the picture, saw that Grantaire dared to put himself in the picture, to put so much of his soul into the expression on the faces. Enjolras would have been angry, scared by this desperate kind of love, the only love Grantaire could offer. He'd destroyed the picture and stormed out. He would probably come back later, and end everything officially, and ask Grantaire to move out, to not attend meetings, to quit. And Grantaire would die, plain and simple. He no longer remembered how to breathe without Enjolras.

Oh god, he was such a fool. He was a fool for thinking a God could love a mortal, for thinking he could fit in with the Amis, integrate himself, love them, and anyone, let alone the leader, would feel the same way about him. He was a fool for staying as long as he did, for allowing it to hurt this much.

He had to leave. His first instinct was to get a drink, but the voice in his head that was Enjolras disapproved, and even now he didn't want that disapproval, couldn't stand it.

He looked at the painting again, at the hole that was as good as a goodbye speech. If only he knew what he'd done wrong—but he did know. The painting had been the last straw. He cared about Enjolras too much. It scares him. I scare him. Enjolras deserved so much more.

Grantaire didn't pick up the brushes, didn't take anything with him. He walked out of the flat shaking. The last thing he thought when he shut the door behind him was that he'd woken up feeling warm because he'd fallen asleep in Enjolras's arms. An hour ago he'd been happy, and now he couldn't even be sure he was breathing.

Enjolras was at the bottom of the stairs. Grantaire almost went back up when he saw him. He almost slipped to his knees and begged forgiveness in the middle of a crowded street. But then Enjolras looked at him, and Grantaire could do nothing. He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped it would be over soon.

"You leaving already?" Enjolras's voice was tired and he yawned, "That's probably for the best. Don't come tonight, alright? I couldn't stand it if you were there. It would be the last straw, really. So just stay away. You hear me, R? I mean it. Don't come."

Grantaire was trembling. He didn't trust himself to speak, and when he did open his mouth his voice was a hoarse whisper. "Yeah. Yes, of course. I—you won't see me. I swear."

"You had to know this was coming," Enjolras said, impatient, "I told you a hundred times—"

"I know. Of course, I knew," Enjolras was climbing the stairs, brushed past him, and just that light touch was enough to make him tingle, make him almost melt into a puddle of tears because this could be the last time, the last time they touched, ever. "I just—it's sudden. It surprised me."

"Mmm," Enjolras hummed distractedly. "I've been meaning to tell you for a while now." And then he shut the door. He didn't even look back.

Grantaire stumbled down the stairs and walked, kept walking, hoping the cold air would make people think his cheeks were red from the wind and not from the tears dripping down his cheeks, an uncontrollable river.

#

"Where's Grantaire?" Courfeyrac finally pushed through the huge crowd to stand next to Enjolras, looking around automatically for the dark-haired man who followed their leader like a shadow.

"I told him to stay at home," Enjolras said, "he doesn't like rallies at the best of times, and this one is likely to be violent. They're gearing up already. I don't want to worry about him in a fight."

"Grantaire's good in a fight," Courfeyrac said, "Too good for his own good."

"Oh, he can hold his own," Enjolras said, smiling in pride at the memory of his boyfriend coming home with scrapes and a bad temper after fighting his way through three muggers, or coming back unscathed from a bar fight after a patron said something particularly uncouth. "But if I were caught in some struggle, and he came to my rescue, he'd kill the ones who attacked me. He'd kill them, Courfeyrac, and I wouldn't be able to help him then."

"You can't really mean to keep him away from all the possible fights you may get into," Courfeyrac said, eyeing a band of rough-looking older men who were shooting Enjolras nasty, knowing looks. "He won't stand for it."

"I'm going to keep him safe as long as I can," Enjolras said, "I'll protect him as long as he'll let me. And tonight that means keeping him away from this rally."

#

He ended up at a bar. He'd let his feet take them where they would and they'd led him into his bar. The one he'd drank at, before he met Enjolras. The one he bartended at now, picking up a shift here and there, adding to the unsteady income he got from giving odd dance lessons and selling his worthless paintings.

It had been six months since he'd last had a drink. Enjolras didn't forbid drink outright, but he disliked it, and he disliked Grantaire when he was drunk. He ordered beer and a shot of something stronger. Another beer, and another, and his mood went from shock to depression. Alcohol made him maudlin.

"Are you all right, lad?" A man, maybe ten years older than Grantaire, sat next o him. He was all big shoulders and strong thighs and scruffy beard. He looked like a sailor. "Could I stand you the next round?" He was looking at Grantaire, eyes passing over his tight pants and thin shirt and red cheeks, stopping on his lips. He was looking at Grantaire like he wanted to eat him whole.

Grantaire was out of money, so he said, "If you're buying, I'm drinking."

The man held out a hand. "I'm Lucas. Luke."

"R," Grantaire shook.

Luke tugged his hand until Grantaire was leaning close, and then he whispered right into the hollow of Grantaire's ear, "You're a sight for sore eyes. You're gorgeous."

"I'm not," Grantaire said, an automatic response from childhood. He almost followed it up with _I'm taken_ , an automatic response from just under a year ago. Until he realized he wasn't.

So he stayed.

#

Combeferre had just left, telling Enjolras to keep the steak over his eye if he didn't want it to swell, when Grantaire walked in the door. His clothes were ripped. He was crying again. He didn't even know he had tears left. "Oh," he said, when he saw Enjolras on the couch. "You're back. I didn't think you would be—I can go."

"Why?" Enjolras said, sitting up. He caught sight of Grantaire and gasped, "What happened? Oh, R, what happened to you?"

At the same time, Grantaire's eyes widened, "You're hurt!"

"You first," Enjolras demanded, "R, you're shaking. You're crying. What happened?"

"I won't—I'll just leave. Please. I'm sorry I came back. I thought you'd be gone."

"The rally ended spectacularly. I got a punch, as you can see. I'm glad you weren't there, you would have put the poor bastard in the hospital. Don't worry. Last I saw Jehan and Joly were doing a good job doing that themselves. They're probably spending the evening in jail," Enjolras looked worried for a second, then shook his head. Chetta or Feuilly would bail the hot-headed Amis out, if they needed it. Grantaire needed him now.

"I was supposed to be gone before you left," Grantaire muttered.

"But why?" Enjolras stood, discarding the steak and damn the swelling. "Did I do something? Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

Grantaire let out a sound like a barely suppressed sob and backed into the door when Enjolras moved to touch him. "You don't have to be nice," Grantaire gasped, "I know—I know this upsets you. I'm sorry."

"You—what? Grantaire, if you're hurt, I just want to help."

"I'm trying to do the right thing," Grantaire muttered, "I'm trying to get out of your hair. What do you want from me, Apollo? The only thing of worth I had was that stupid painting, which you destroyed, and my love, which scares you. You've made your feelings clear, and I have always worn my thoughts too much on my sleeve."

"Destroyed your painting? R, I would never…" And then Enjolras remembered, he remembered reading the paper and getting angry at the fact that a liberal rally would be closely watched by the police. He remembered throwing something across the room—a shoe, a brush, he didn't remember—and hearing a thunk, a tear, and not investigating.

"I shouldn't have painting that in the first place," Grantaire was saying, slipping down the wall, "Stupid."

"No, R, this is entirely my fault. I did destroy your painting—but I didn't mean to! I was angry—not at you, not at all, at something stupid. And I threw—and I didn't check to see—and I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I swear it was an accident. I never even saw the painting, ever."

"What?" Grantaire breathed, "You mean…"

"What have you been doing today, R?" Enjolras got on the floor, sat cross-legged so eh was at Grantaire's level. "When you saw the painting, what did you think? Where did you go?"

"I thought—I assumed you were breaking up with me. I was going to go for a walk when I saw you and you said…"

"I said not to come tonight," Enjolras said, feeling cold all over. "That I didn't want to see you. Oh, my poor dear."

Grantaire was shaking his head, shaking down to his toes, "No, I just—I knew we were over. Thought we were. You just confirmed it. So I went—I had a drink. I had a lot to drink. I was…I was trying to remember how to breathe. And then this man, his name was Lucas, he was talking to me, and he put his hands—and he kept buying me drinks, and saying I was pretty, and I should have known he was lying, I should have known."

"R," Enjolras put a hand out to touch Grantaire's leg and stopped himself, not sure what his partner needed right now. "R, what happened, what did he do?"

"I thought you were done with me. I thought I'd never see you again. That you'd throw me out, tell me not to come to meetings. I let him touch me. It was my fault."

Enjolras did put a hand on Grantaire now, "It's not your fault."

"Don't touch me! Please, I can't believe," Grantaire took a big gulp of air, gasping between sobs, "I was so stupid. I assumed you were done with me."

"Never. Oh, R, I should have communicated better," Enjolras saw that there was a cut on Grantaire's cheek and wondered if his rough and lovely friends could track a man down by first name alone. "I love you. I love you so much. You have to believe that I would never ruin your picture on purpose. Or that I would send you away from me. And if you heard me say that your love scares me, it is only because I feel that love for you, and it scares me to think of what might happen to you. I didn't want you at the rally for fear that you would get hurt protecting me."

"You love me?"

"Of course," Enjolras tried touching again, was glad when Grantaire let him rest a hand on his shoulder. "Did I never say that before? In all these months? Did I never tell you that I've never been happier in my whole life? That you are more precious to me than anything—the Cause, the revolution, my own life? Did my—my reticence—do this to you?"

"I did it to myself," Grantaire said, his voice hollow now. There were no tears left.

"No! Grantaire, whatever happened wasn't your thought. If he forced you…"

"It wasn't force. I didn't say no. I let him buy me drinks."

"But—"

"Can I take a shower?" Grantaire interrupted, and then flinched, "Do I—can I still live here? Just for tonight? I can't stand to feel him on me."

"You do live here," Enjolras tried to keep his voice steady even though he felt like crying now. Grantaire was nodding in absent assent, but he didn't believe Enjolras, didn't believe a word. "Grantaire, I love you."

"Okay," Grantaire said, still sounding hollow. "I love you more than my life, Enjolras," the words were full and listless. And Enjolras shrank from the tone like he'd been slapped. "More than drink or food. More than the sun. I've been telling you forever."

"I'm telling you now."

Grantaire bit his lip, struggled to his feet, leaned against the wall. There was blood on the floor where he'd been sitting. "I need a shower."

"Can we talk after?" Enjolras said, "Please, Grantaire, I don't know what I did. Let me try to fix it."

"I need a shower," Grantaire said, and walked away.

 **.***.**

 **What lovely broken boys. If you've never read the book _Les Mis_ , it's a good read, and it's free if you have internet access.**

 **Until next time.**

 **Us**


End file.
